


Anger

by lonely_traveler



Series: Catharsis [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Catharsis, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Suicidal Sam Winchester, Suicidal Thoughts, TRIGGER WARNING - Suicidal Thoughts/Actions, cathartic writing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-02
Updated: 2018-05-02
Packaged: 2019-05-01 00:54:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14508966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lonely_traveler/pseuds/lonely_traveler
Summary: "How are you feeling?""How am Ifeeling?"Or,Lucifer decides Sam needs a little more pressure to say yes (read: Sam's life becomes a living hell).





	Anger

“How are you feeling?”

“'How am I feeling', Dean? You want to know how I'm _feeling_?” Sam narrowed his eyes dangerously as he turned sharply to face Dean, his hands balling into fists. 

“Let me tell you how I'm 'feeling'. My head feels like it's being ripped from my neck every second of every day. Every damn day, Dean.” His brother's name was spit like a curse, “My throat is cracked and dry and yet somehow wet, hot, and swollen. All day, every day. My joints ache, my eyes are raw. It hurts to talk. It hurts to think, and yet I can't seem to stop. I think constantly. I think about Jess, I think about Dad, about Stanford, about Bobby, about Mom, about this damn apocalypse. So ask me again how I feel, Dean. Ask me again. I wish I wasn't fucking here, Dean.”

Sam had gotten progressively closer, his hands balling up tighter and his shoulders drawn up like a hurt, snarling animal. His jaw was clenched, making his face stone cold but also explicit with the internal war he was waging. “I can't sleep, can't eat. I don't want to stay here but I can't seem to fucking leave. My insides turn out and then back in every other hour. My lungs are raw from screaming that I haven't done. I'm having visions of horrific, unimaginable futures that I find myself wanting simply because I'm not in them. I've seen routes this world can and probably will take; each path is worse than the last, Dean. And I _want_ them. What kind of monster does that make me, Dean?” The name had turned from a curse to an unnamed plea, tears of _stress-pain-anguish_ misting up in his eyes.

“I want to die, Dean. If Death came through that door-” He gestured harshly to the motel room door, “I would drop to my knees and beg.”

Dean's heart twisted in pain at the last words, and he hated himself so much for having to prod Sam like this, but he knew. He knew that this is what Sam needed. Without this, Sam would just keep it bottled like he did before Stanford. Dean shuddered at the reminder; before Stanford, Sam had been in the darkest place Dean had ever seen him. As he kept everything bottled up he would just drop lower and lower into the spiral of pain and darkness until he was sure that anger and pain were the only things he could feel anymore. Dean could not and would not let his brother sink that low again, so he had to do this. For Sam.

Dean put on his best John Winchester Sneer™ and stepped menacingly closer to Sam, making sure the resemblance was noticed by his brother who bristled immediately. “Yeah? Well, what are you doing about it? Seems like you're just sittin' on your ass and whinin' to me.” Dean made sure to thicken his accent the same way John did when he got angry and distant, something that Sam vehemently hated. 

Sam responded exactly how Dean knew he would; how Dean knew he needed to. “What the fuck? The Hell do you think I do all day? I've been trying, certainly more than you have. I work my ass off searching for answers, searching for a solution to this damn mess, but get this, Dean. All my efforts have done jack _shit._ ” Dean's name once again became a swear, “You know why? No one knows anything about stopping the apocalypse. There is no lore, no damn handbook. The apocalypse is about to go full-force, Dean, and I can't do a damn thing.” The tears that had previously faded were back. “I can't do a single, goddamned thing. You wanted to know how I'm feeling, Dean? I have never felt or been more useless in my entire life. I am completely and utterly incapable, destined to be the shit on the devil's shoe for him to scuff around and stomp on.” 

Sam's shoulders started to sag and weariness crept into his voice, “I'm useless, Dean.” The name dropped its curse status. “I fucked everything up so bad and I am completely helpless to even attempt to fix it. It's not even worth it to kill myself.” Tears fell from both men's eyes. “He'd just bring me back. He said so.” Sam's arms came to hug himself slightly, not even trying to hide how broken he was anymore. “God, Dean, I've tried. Over and over. I know He would just bring me back because he _has._ ” His voice broke off into a strangled sound, his hands coming up to press into his eyes and clutch at his hair painfully as his face screwed up in agony.

Dean quickly stepped forward and stopped him, grabbing Sam's hands before tugging Sam into a fierce embrace, his fingers clutching his brother tight enough to bruise. Sam didn't mind. Dean now took the time to murmur the stream of reassurances that he had so desperately wished would've worked earlier, _“I'm here. You aren't alone. You can do this. I know you can do this. I believe in you. I will never leave you. I believe in us. It's us against the world, little brother. We will conquer this together. You are important. So important. If you were gone, who would I be fighting for?”_

Sam sobbed into his big brother's shirt. It was gross and wet and snot-filled, but he didn't care. It just _hurt so bad, all the time._

A hand clenched and rubbed at his shoulder, “I know, Sammy, I know.”

Sam startled a bit; he hadn't noticed that he spoke the thought out loud.

“Dean?”

“Yeah, Sammy.”

“... Thank you.”


End file.
